


blood of the blue jay

by coronagrapher



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Child Abuse, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, basically a character analysis of rinea, no beta bc i'm lazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:55:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23661919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coronagrapher/pseuds/coronagrapher
Summary: Rinea has spent a life nursing her own wounds. Being courted by the tried-and-true product of Rigel’s ruthlessness makes her fear the thought of nursing more.But Lord Berkut surprises her.
Relationships: Berkut/Rinea (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 56





	blood of the blue jay

**Author's Note:**

> wanted to write about rinea since she’s an ANGEL but gets shafted soooo heavily in sov. tried to stick as close to canon as possible, but i inserted a bunch of my own ideas because i’m a gremlin. this is also probably a bit incoherent since i haven't written in ages lmao.  
> also they're basically each others' therapists in this since i haven’t been to therapy in almost a year and i live vicariously through fire emblem characters.  
> anyways. this is extremely self-indulgent. but for all the berinea stans out there starved for content… this is for u.

Rinea despised war.

It was not in the bloodshed itself that her revulsion sprang; gore rarely bothered her, unladylike as that was. No, it was not that, nor the displays of combative magic, though her heart sank when soldiers came home with burns snaking up their skin. She could stomach it all if she tried — she had even entertained the thought of accompanying Berkut on the battlefield as a dancer, but she knew she would be of no use. From a logical standpoint, she understood it was a necessary component for Rigel's survival, that fighting over scraps was what allowed the empire to prosper. War was vital. But it was still despised.

Of course, she was not alone in this — Rigellian nobility, for all their talk of power and supremacy, skirted uncomfortably around the idea of taking up arms. The rare who enlisted became statistics among them, ghosts that haunted ballrooms and promenades and castle halls. Some thought war uncouth, some were terrified of death, but many believed it was simply enough to throw their huddled masses onto the battlefield and see who weathered it. But Rinea had her reasons.

It was the celebration of violence that made her loathe it so.

As a child — a wide-eyed, idealistic child, who would not let her gender or class decide things — she longed for two very disparate ideals: the dance hall and the battlefield. 

Dancing was, to Rinea, the highest mode of creative expression, and one of the few times she wasn’t shy to the point she had to stare at her feet. When Father brought her to her first ball as a five-year-old, she was immediately captured by music and dance; she ended up stealing the show that night on the ballroom floor, jumping around until she got blisters on her heels. She’d waltz for hours by herself in the forest lining their manor, nothing but the birds and the deer as her audience. 

And yet, even then, a part of her longed to be a proper mage in a ragtag company of adventurers, back when battling and questing was about kissing princes and fighting dragons and finding riches. The latter was especially appealing. After all, the gold could surely save her house's precarity; even then, when she used to make-believe spells in the overgrown garden that faced her bedroom window, she saw the ivy creeping up their brickstone walls and _knew_. This was a tantalizing concept, of becoming a seasoned mage that would save the family, and she attempted to hone what little magical aptitude she had through found tomes far too advanced for her child-self.

Both the ideas were shot down quickly. Dancing was a good social skill, but it would be laughable as a living; magic was entirely out of the question. Mother implored her to stop dirtying her skin and charring her clothes. She instead taught her how to cook and clean and sew and dance and look pretty and be very, very quiet when father's friends were around. Rinea loved her mother and obeyed, excelled. If this was what would save their house, then she would do anything.

The child's lens blurred and faded as Rinea grew into the role that would come to define her, and all that remained was a reality she could no longer safely ignore. Father's voice rose more often and he would come home inebriated, ranting wildly about the day's passing in court. _You can't trust anybody, Rinea_ , he had told her one night, _because as soon as you place your trust in someone, they'll take advantage of you_. He became incorrigible. Mother's counsel and advice turned from helpful suggestions to scathing criticisms on his person, and he would not allow it. Yes, as early as nine, she saw bruises bloom across Mother's skin. She would laugh them off when Rinea pried her, told her daughter she had missed a step down the stairs, but the screams at night were unmistakable.

No, you really couldn't trust anybody, could you? Not even your own blood.

She held out on her fantasies for a while until Father decided that they were best discarded. The hard times had gotten harder. The servants had been excused for the winter; the family chopped their own firewood and laundered their own clothes. Rinea loved it. After being good and idle for so long, she savored the idea of stoking the fire and heating their own tea, and thought back on her childhood fantasies. But Father knew this was the beginning of their house's steady decline. He despised the labor and what it reminded him of, so Rinea and Mother gathered tinder outside as frost fell, and he whittled away his time with the alcohol.

Rinea was no older than twelve that winter she came down with the worst illness of her life. She rose and the walls whirled around her, a sudden jolt of vertigo leaving her head spinning. But the snow was piling high and she had to help her family. She shambled her way to the parlor where Father waited — sick as she was, Rinea could tell instantly he was in a foul mood. He questioned her, asking her if she was just faking it, if she couldn't even bother to snap icicles or shovel the front steps. She could not remember her replies; she was almost completely incoherent, body flushed with fever, but that only served to further irritate Father.

Then she sat down too roughly beside him, putting her full weight on the table they were seated at. Father's drink toppled and fell. Glass shards scattered across the floor. _You idiot girl!_ Rinea felt an intense pain radiate across her cheek — had she been slapped? — before falling back unconscious.

She recovered quickly thanks to Mother's care, always handy with a miracle salve. But her relationship with Father was forever changed. He had been distant before, but doting when he had the time to play with her. After weathering that winter and coming out alive, there was a malice in his eyes that had not been there before. Rinea wondered if he had always been this way or if this was her doing. Was she simply not good enough? That was a question perpetually left unanswered, but she believed it to be true.

But she was no longer Rinea now. She was Girl, soon Woman. Mother prepared her well for the duties Father set before her: she cooked, cleaned, and entertained well, with the latent and unspoken knowledge that the men Father invited to their bare halls were here to decide her eligibility for marriage. The discussion of marriage itself wasn't even thought of; it was an obligation as automatic as breathing air. If Rinea did not marry, the house would die. So these older men came, barons and dukes and earls, and brought their sons to speak with her, and Rinea was afraid of them all.

This fear was learned, just as any other skill. It was learned through the reminders on her skin that ached when Mother tied her bodice. It was learned through a memorization of Father's tics and moods and fixating on each expression he made. It was learned through this wicked dance they did, where Rinea would be maligned if she fumbled a stride, battered if she stepped on toes.

It was natural, the slow descent into fearing Father, fearing most men. She had never been so timid in her life by the time she met Berkut. Each breath was hitched and released as a stutter, eyes grazing the tiled floors of their foyer. Is this what Mother meant by being demure and docile? Being terrified of the same gender she was to be betrothed? Rinea wished Mother had taught her how to handle this. She dressed her wounds and iced her welts and spoke very softly to her during these times, but never did she tell her, _This is what will happen to you when you marry_.

The wide-eyed child looked at her own blooming body and saw that her dreams were well-packaged lies. This was a war.

When Berkut had first approached her during that ball — a ball she was invited to thanks to a friend of Father’s — Rinea believed it was another war coming. She was hardened by then. She knew if she had to, she could weather it. He was a prince who had seen myriad battles with the scars to prove it, but Rinea was no stranger to violence. She had scars too.

She was aware he had only approached her because of her beauty. If her face was marred by the same lesions that disfigured the soldiers who fought on their behalf, he would have balked and excused himself promptly. Her timidity was a plus; nobody liked a woman who spoke too much, after all, and the more she apologized for her blather, the more she endeared herself to him. She had to be cunning about this if she wanted her family to be fed. Courtship was not the fantasy romance of her childhood, but a complicated game, a simulacrum of the intrigue at court. She could not fail like Father did.

Little from Berkut was expected once they began their weekly strolls through Rigel Castle's courtyards. He was a war-loving, arrogant heir to a country founded on ruthlessness — she assumed he would be just like Father and she braced herself for the end of their honeymoon phase. He spoke of battles and skirmishes and all the training he had done to prepare himself once he became emperor. He took pride in the sweat and blood. Berkut was prideful in general, prideful and ambitious and condescending with a disdain for the petty rabble they threw at the border. She was shocked he had bothered to send for her after their fateful dance at the ball. After all, she was only a noble in title now; was she not, in practice, the commoner he loathed?

Still, she would remain cordial, as was expected of her, as came natural to her. Just because she was internally fearful didn’t mean she couldn’t be warm. She would dance with him, teach him each step with patience, let his touch linger on her arm. She grinned and suppressed the flinching that came instinctively, reflexes from days gone by. 

This was her only chance at repaying Mother. If her body bloomed again, so be it — her skin was thicker now.

* * *

* * *

The first few weeks were uncomfortable for a courtship. He would send for her when he was not occupied with any noble responsibilities, inviting her to brunch and tea and, if she was lucky, the feast that was the Emperor’s dinner. Initially, she was more excited about the food than about seeing Berkut, handsome as he was. He only talked about war, Rudolf’s reign (he idolized the man!), and the myriad duties of nobility. It was apparent the young heir was not used to more middling conversation.

“...as I had discussed with Uncle, the nobility are the nobility for a reason, just as commoners are commoners for a reason. Is that not so?”

The two were headed to the castle gardens following tea. It was still morning, the sun close to its peak in the sky, glimpsed through leaf-filtered light that hung still in the stifling and dusty corridor they strode down. The natural light was compounded by luxurious chandeliers that hung overhead, candles lit with amber flames that licked the air with magic. Everything about the castle was ornate and imperious, from the banisters to the gold leaf-framed paintings that passed them by every few paces, and it both awed and intimidated her. Noble and royal, nothing like her own house, with its shingle roof that seeped rain water into the wooden beams.

“That it is, my lord,” Rinea assented, tearing her eyes away from the intricacies of the castle (intricacies that were mundane to him). Her own opinion was far from aligned with his. _Nobles are nobles because they are born into wealth; commoners are commoners because they are born into dirt._

_What does that make me, I wonder?_

“Commoners that happen to rise above their station are the exceptional few, and should be treated as such. Nobles who manage to fall from grace get what they deserve for failing their duties. Either way, the hierarchy is preserved, and…”

Berkut stopped himself, expression turned uncharacteristically sheepish. It was as if a switch had been flipped.

“Oh… Forgive me, Rinea, I meant you no offense. Your family’s situation is unique. Regardless of their doings, you are still a noble in title and bearing, and as such deserve the privileges.”

_But what if I was a commoner in title and bearing instead? Would you simply spit on my coat and call me a peasant?_

…Was what she wanted to say, but she had to be grateful, always grateful, that she was with him and not at her manor. Instead, she assuaged him with the words Mother taught her to memorize: “I understand, my lord. No offense taken.”

Hurried footsteps interrupted their thoughts. A knight approached the two, bowed, said his piece, his eyes never quite reaching Berkut’s cold glare. “Lord Berkut, Emperor Rudolf requests your presence in the war room.”

“Very well,” he replied, his solemn face suddenly breaking into a grin. “Rinea, excuse us. I’ll send for you once this is done.”

With a flourish of his cape, he sauntered off, the knight dutifully trailing behind him. Rinea was once again alone.

 _What does he see in me?_ She wondered. _He sees a face, and a body, and eyes — but does he see a mind, a heart? Does he care to?_

As his figure grew distant, her thoughts turned on her.

_Ah, but he shouldn’t. A weak mind and a cloying heart. Two things best to hide, Rinea. You can’t fail now. You needn’t be more than a body for warmth. You’re so close…_

Her parents’ faces rose to the forefront of her mind, Father’s glower and Mother’s tired smile. They always did when she ruminated on her purpose here. She wondered still, after all this time, why she was doing this for them, when they were the ones who had scarred her spirit, when they had done so little for her until their courtship began, when they saw her as nothing more than future gold.

She needed to clear her head.

But when Rinea entered the gazebo of Rigel Castle’s garden, she was not alone. There was a blue jay in attendance, hopping in a circle and weakly flapping its wings, yet gaining no air. Its left wing was clipped, its end still oozing droplets of blood that stained the egg-white flooring. Upon noticing her arrival, the bird halted, studying her curiously, knowing she was not there to harm it. Such was her relationship with animals — one she never took for granted.

Someone had tried to use it as target practice, she surmised. This was not the first time she’d encountered such brutality on the castle grounds, and it would not be the last, either.

Her gaze surveyed the garden surrounding them on all sides, furtive and quick, ensuring nobody was around to watch. Kneeling down, she cupped the bird’s frail body in her hands, her thumb rubbing lightly over its wings. She said a few words to herself, far too quiet for anyone else to make out. The familiar chiming of magic was music to her ears. Her hands were radiant with the glow of healing spellwork, spreading from her palms to her fingertips and up the length of her arms. There were few things as invigorating as feeling the warmth of magic coursing through her veins; it was the only time Rinea ever felt powerful.

“Hm, Rinea? What are you…”

The magic sputtered out quickly. She turned her head to lock eyes with Berkut, who was watching her from the gazebo’s threshold. Shame suddenly gripped her; for some reason, she could not get Father’s glare out of her mind. Still, she rose, attempting a curtsy with the bird clasped in her hand.

“Lord Berkut,” she breathed. “I-I didn’t know your meeting with Emperor Rudolf would end so soon…” 

Her hands were trembling.

“Rinea,” he spoke, eyes wide with surprise, “you can use magic?”

“Just a little, my lord.” She averted her gaze. She knew his suspicions about magic, his distrust of the Duma Faithful — what would he say, knowing that she had such an interest in it? _He’ll throw me out, I’m sure of it._ “I know magic does not please you. But please, let me heal this poor creature…”

“Why would I stop you?” He asked incredulously, stepping closer. He guided her with a hand on her shoulder to the stone seats ringing the gazebo. The two sat side-by-side there, facing the castle bathed in noontime sun. “Actually, let me watch your work. Heal the thing.”

“Of course, my lord.”

He studied her with curiosity as her magic slowly returned. She had never practiced it with another set of eyes watching — her anxiety was palpable, palms clammy despite the hum of healing washing over them. To her pleasure, she could see her spell working regardless, bone and flesh and blue feather returning to the bird’s wing as she grazed her fingers over it. She did not break her focus to see, but Berkut was entirely enraptured.

She smiled wide as the blue jay suddenly sprang to life, bravely hopping from her hands and flying back into the air without a second thought. Once Rinea returned her attention to Berkut, she caught a grin tugging at the edges of his lips, too, but it faded once they locked eyes. That saddened her. After almost a month of knowing her, was he still afraid of expressing himself? (Was she doing something wrong? Was she a failure?)

“You never told me that you had such skill. I’ve always known of your love of dance, of course, but I wasn’t expecting magical aptitude as well.”

She nodded. “Just like dance, I have always been interested in magic, my lord. But my parents… they were not fond of it,” she admitted. “They thought it unfeminine of me. They foremost wanted to prepare me to become a good wife.”

“And kill your passions? Waste your _talent_?” He balked. “Does your family despite you? Or do they somehow lack the mental capacities for reason? Is that to explain their financial and political illiteracy as well?”

Rinea winced, but said nothing. Berkut backtracked with a stutter.

“I… I mean no offense to you, of course, Rinea. I understand your circumstances were… difficult, but it was none of your doing. You are nothing like your family, or other nobles.”

“I take no offense,” she assured him. “You spoke no lies.” 

He opened his mouth only to say nothing. There was a subtle shock written on his face to hear her speak, even indirectly, something unkind about her own family. That didn’t surprise her — she had barely said a word about them since they began their courtship. None of it mattered, really, apart from their financial hardship, which would only be relevant if they were betrothed. But Rinea was not holding out on that now. A part of her always whispered, _This is not a fairy tale, you are not worthy, the prince will never love you_ , and she was beginning to believe it. He would never love someone battered like her; she was not strong, not truly, and all he desired was strength.

Finally, words came to him.

“It was kind of you to do that for such a pitiful creature.”

“I’ve always loved animals, as you know,” she replied, studying the small bits of drying blood crusting on her fingertips, “and when I see one suffer… I cannot help but imagine myself in its place.”

He titled his head. She began searching for an excuse, realizing what she had said. _It does you no good to talk about yourself._

“Ah, I apologize, Lord Berkut. I keep running my mouth today…”

“No,” he said, taking her hand in his, “I… I want you to continue, Rinea. You know much about me now: Uncle, my parents, my upbringing, my beliefs, my battles. Yet I feel I know so little about you in return.”

“It’s… It’s all very boring, my lord, I promise you. You needn’t worry.”

“But I would like to know,” he countered. “I am very interested in you, Rinea. You are a peculiar person. Few look me in the eyes, yet you do so without hesitation. Even fewer take my hand and guide me through a dance, yet you have my full control from first step to last. You listen to my thoughts and beliefs, yet I can tell you disagree in that way that you agree. Other nobles fawn over me. Women flatter my intellect. Sycophants, the lot of them. You simply say, “That it is.” I can tell you’re trying to shut me up. For someone so humble, it’s quite brazen of you.”

Rinea grew pale. _He… knows?_

“Why do you look so scared? Of course, if it was anyone else, I’d have their head rolling, but you… I would prefer to get to know you," he purred. "Come. Tell me of your childhood."

There was a long silence between them. Rinea was both terrified and exhilarated. She looked to their clasped hands, then to Berkut. A smile played at his lips. His eyes were void-black and twinkling, never far from her face.

“Truly? All of it?”

He squeezed her hand.

“Yes, my lady.”

She took a deep breath. On her long list of things to anticipate during courtship, this was absent, and Rinea was equal parts elated to bear herself honestly before him and afraid, deeply afraid, of the repercussions, and whether he would grow to despise her for her weakness.

“To begin, my favorite season is spring, though I was actually born in autumn…” so she began, going through the chronology of her background dryly and with tinges of self-deprecation, like it was a forgotten memoir tucked away in the bookshelf of some decrepit library, overlooked as it was not as illustrious and moving as its counterparts. Rinea found it surprisingly easy to ramble at length about her family's circumstances, though she'd never spoken them aloud to anyone, not even the birds. It felt natural to describe the bruises and the tears to Berkut; perhaps, on some level, she sought to impress him, to show him what she'd gone through to prove that she was a worthy bride. That train of thought disgusted her but she could not keep herself from fixating on it. Another part of her, equally as loud, believed that he would cast her off as a battered and broken woman, unworthy to carry the heirs to Rigel.

"After that, Father had taken all our magic tomes and made me watch him throw them into the fire pit..." Yet as she progressed through the years, she found herself not caring, not as much as she did she began, and speaking her house's slow decline was simple. In a way, it was cathartic to speak of it without crying or feeling sorry for herself — it became simply what it was.

"And Father was desperate, so I was sent to the ball," she concluded, "And so, I met you, and here we are now."

Rinea realized she'd been staring out at the gardens in a trance, completely lost within her recounting. Her attention moved to Berkut, who looked incensed, brows knit against wide and wild eyes. His grip on her tightened. The blood drained from her face and she prepared for the worst. _Rinea, you've truly done it now_. 

"Your family. They would take their only child," he growled, "and beat her until she was black and blue? Degrade her? Humiliate her? Kill her spirit? All for the sake of marrying into wealth?!" His fist pounded the balustrade, grinding his teeth. " _This_ is why I say fallen nobles deserve their fate, Rinea! Their privileges must be revoked on account of their avarice. Greedy enough to turn their daughter into a bride price and vile enough to treat her as an object." He inhaled sharply. "I see now why you are the way you are. You are afraid, aren't you? Afraid of me?"

"I..." Rinea stammered, at a loss for words. She wasn't expecting this response. She wasn't expecting anything. But he saw right through her, just as she did him. "My lord... I know I have no reason to fear you, I simply... It was what I was taught."

"They taught you to fear," he muttered. "It was how you survived. I, too, had to survive, but never was I taught to fear others. Mother, she ripped my fear straight out of me, and I am all the stronger for it. I truly cannot believe..."

"You are very strong, Lord Berkut," she assented, her eyes fixed on the ground. Her chest felt tight for some reason she could not discern. "I wish I had come out of it without being the weak soul that I am, too afraid to speak against you."

“Do not call yourself weak; it is a disgrace to yourself and all that you’ve suffered through. Your strength is obvious, Rinea. You could not have lived through that if you were not!”

Rinea paused, gears turning.

Her thoughts turned from herself to the man in front of her, enraged on her behalf, the fire in his eyes sparking with a fervor for her that almost felt alien. And she thought of the times he had recounted his own past and the pain and the anguish he, too, suffered through in order to prepare for his taking of the throne: the strictness of his mother, who held his uncle's rich legacy over his head, telling him to jump, jump with all his strength and hold onto it, lest he'd never be able to take the throne. Yet, instead of knowing his family was flawed and had raised him with unforgiving hands, he defended them to the death. Why could he see the malice of her family but not his? It depressed Rinea immensely to see him venerate them; she knew that had hurt him, yet he held onto their bloodied fists like salvation. And war, to Berkut, was more than a game and more than a show of strength — it became a way for him to justify the violence. His scars were not just from the battlefield, but from his own kin, yet he wore them with Rigellian pride all the same. He was never taught to distinguish between the two. 

Suddenly, it all made sense, and she could feel her stomach knotting in grief. _If he is not a noble — not an emperor — then_ who _can he be? That's all he knows, just as I only know..._

She took his hands in hers again. She hoped her thoughts could reach him, past the scar tissue and the pride.

“Thank you, Lord Berkut... To be strong... I would love to be as strong as you are. And I myself find weakness to be a flaw; I cannot see any good in myself, so I call myself weak, and ignore that the hardships I've suffered have tempered me. Yet sometimes I think weakness is also a blessing, my lord. It is foremost a sign of safety and a sign of trusting. Zofia is our enemy, but I cannot help but envy them. They are allowed to be weak without hurting, to feel safe without fearing, to be given the chance to live as they like without repercussion. To live without violence. I wish… I wish we were given that chance as well.”

Berkut was silent.

“I always pass by this painting of you and your family in the entrance hall. Your parents were so beautiful. You resemble them; you have the same glossy dark hair and long limbs. And in this painting — I’m sure you’ve seen it a million times, so pardon my blather — you’re a child, no older than six, I believe, looking right into me, and your eyes are so large and innocent, timid but curious, and the first time I saw it I almost wanted to cry. Seeing you now, I know, the child’s visage is gone, and instead is the visage of a man. But at the same time, that light, that curiosity, that pureness of being is also gone. What I wouldn’t do to return it to you.”

Rinea continued, oblivious to Berkut’s change in expression, from righteous second-hand anger, to pondering, to something so foreign he had trouble expressing it outright — but perhaps the word could be something like _reverence_. His cheeks were flushed, black eyes limpid and watery.

“And now when I pass by it, I think to myself, if I were to ever be blessed with child, I would want a child with eyes that beautiful and a countenance that honest. And I would want to let them be weak, and fail, and rise again, to teach them they have worth outside of the title or the throne they’ll inherit. To raise them to love themselves for who they are… to love them the way that we were not loved, my lord.”

Her thoughts were finally settled, and Rinea believed she was at peace. Then, she immediately began to panic. _Oh no, oh no, oh no, I rambled again… I've spoken too much._ She’d already spilled her entire backstory — to insert her opinion as well? Her thoughts? Her dreams? To make him _listen_ and not _speak_? Father would have cut her tongue off by now. She could feel her heart pounding, afraid of what would come next. 

But she was surprised.

“ _Rinea_.” 

Berkut wrapped his arms around her without warning, bringing her head to his chest, his grip on her unyielding but tender. Her face suddenly grew red with warmth, unaccustomed to being so close to him, her prince and her suitor. So close to her, he smelled like iron and velvet. His voice was cracking and turning hoarse between sharp and shallow breaths. “Rinea, Rinea, Rinea… You, you… Even after everything, you’re still…”

Berkut was crying.


End file.
